The True Tale of Sir Boast-a-Lot
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: This is the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot as told by John Watson of Devonshire, a medical man by trade who just returned from war and decided to try his luck in the city of Camelot. Complying with his fate, he got pulled into the adventure of his life (not that he minded much, of course).
1. Danes or Normans?

**Hello! This is a multi-chaptered project which I shall work on in my spare time, so I cannot guarantee any semblance of regularity when updating.**

**This is basically Sherlock as told by the beloved John Watson, but in the format of a mythological tale, but with direct parallels both to Arthurian lore and to Sherlock Holmes. **

**Remember the story that Moriarty tells us? Well, this is the real story of Sir Boast-a-Lot. **

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What follows is an attempt to accurately portray the whole story of Sir Boast-a-Lot. The reason why this is only an attempt is because I am his friend, thus I may not be the best of witnesses regarding the events further described since I am biased in his favour.

And so it begins.

First of all, my name is John Watson, son of Hamish of Devonshire. I am not a knight, nor have I ever intended to be one; I am a medicine man of King Arthur's court, and I have seen war but never sought it. I came back from battles with the peoples southeast of our Camelot wounded and alone with nowhere to go, immediately drawn to Camelot itself; where else is a man in search of a new beginning to go to other than the city that is both the sewer of mankind and a testament to its glory? My profession of being a medical man is one that is not terribly rare around these parts, and yet often we are in deficit of people who can adequately perform this work that we do.

Camelot is beautiful. It is large, busy, and in its glory it is overpowering. Once in the city itself, I stumbled upon an old friend of mine who realised my lack of housing and offered me a place at a boarding house of his friend's mother's. Having nowhere else to go, I agreed.

This is where my tale commences, and I must apologise for my hurried introduction, but what follows is not only the true beginning of this tale, it is also the true beginning of the most interesting period of my own life.

As I walked into the large, well-constructed building on the Street of Bakers (one of the most appetising regions of the city, I daresay), I immediately heard an atrocious screeching sound that vaguely resembled a stringed instrument ringing out from somewhere above, up the stairwell and down the hall, it seemed. Whilst cringing, I took a look around; well-furnished, the rooms that my vision had access to were full of small nothings, such as carvings made by both adults and children, as well as an occasional mould or sculpture. The cloth on which I was standing looked foreign, more of eastern design with thin branches and lines all intertwining into something large and interesting, such symmetric patterns in each of the corners.

What was even more intriguing, however, was the tapestry on the wall; it was of a man wearing armour, seemingly a knight, slaying a large green-coloured dragon with scales of cyan and azure, and a large gem in the lizard's talon-endowed hands. The man's face looked foreign, but not as the origin of the cloth on the floor, no. His facial features were elongated, the zygomatic structure somewhat exaggerated, and his eyes seemed piercingly multi-coloured even in cloth.

As I looked away, by the time that I understood that the infernal sounds have stopped I met the eyes themselves only about a metre away from me, even more shrewd in reality, and examined their owner quite amicably. He was tall (almost intimidatingly so), his face was strange but not devoid of charm, and the rest of his demeanour made him seem almost proud. Whoever had made the tapestry was quite talented because the impression of his physiognomy and overall persona was perfectly captured by the silver and coloured thread.

"Danes or Normans?" this strange man asked me after looking me over for a brief second, then added quite intently, "Do you have a sword on you?"

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**Hope you like this! The next chapter will be longer, I promise. This is more of an introduction than anything else. **

**I'd appreciate a review, any thoughts or suggestions would be amazing; I'd be lying if I said they don't motivate me ;) **


	2. The Deductive Method

**Hello! This one is a bit long, but I did warn you, reviews motivate me ;) Big thanks to everyone who left one, seriously. Can't promise any more uploads this fast though. More character development, yay! Hope you like, it was so much fun to write! **

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I, still somewhat shocked from his first question for really I had just returned from thelast battle we had with some of the Normans, acquiesced without protest, handing him the sword out of the sheath at my left side. He impatiently took out it out of my hands and quit the room, muttering words of thanks as he did so. After a couple of minutes, the realisation that he may not come back with my weapon dawned upon me and I hurried into the direction to which he walked moments ago.

I found him in the kitchen, just happening to be cutting up some type of chicken or quail with my familial blade. Something that I see as worth mentioning is that this sword of mine was not only passed down to my humble self, but had engravings on it in eastern writings, what language I know not, and had small pictures, also engraved, of foreign life. To my knowledge, this sword was older than both I and this man put together twice over. And he was butchering a quail with it.

"You realise that this is a relic of more wars than you and I have ever seen?" I said as I walked in, and he looked back at me, wiping the blade clean. He kept silent, seeming haughty in his ways. "May I know your name, at least? I shall hopefully live here within the nearest time, and as I see, you seem quite at home in these surroundings yourself, sir."

"I am customarily called Sir Boast-a-Lot, but I would prefer it that you call me by the name my parents gave me, Sherlock Holmes of Camelot. As to you, what is your name? I thank you for letting me borrow your sword, though I sincerely doubt it has seen more blood than I, and I repeat myself, Danes or Normans?"

"Oh, John Watson of Devon, and Normans. How-how do you know?" I answered, somewhat pleased by the direct manner of this man, and overbearingly curious as well.

"It is obvious. Look at yourself, you have a wound in your left shoulder which I can see because you unconsciously keep adjusting that messenger bag that is hanging on your right shoulder; you are uncomfortable wearing it there because that is not your habit, but hanging it on your already pained left side would be even worse. The injury is recent, but well-taken care of since it has not yet putrified as most injuries in do because of the inadequacy and lack of any type of working intellect of most contemporary medical men.

"The blade which you have handed me," he laid my sword out in front of me on the small table of the kitchen, his hands backing up what his words were pointing out, "has recently been used, but it has also been thoroughly cleaned, yet I can see remains of blood and soil at the very hilt, and it is ever so slightly dulled, thus meaning it had not been used for a while previous, but not too long; you take very good care of it, don't you? It must have been someone else's before it came into your possession, maybe a careless brother, one who allowed for all of these scratches on the side of it. They resemble something being dragged across, almost like stone... This happens when weapons are dragged across the ground when one falls and slides often, I've seen it before," and here he stopped, his fingers tapping on the blade, thinking.

My interest was most definitely piqued, "how do you know it was my brother's, not a cousin or father?"

"I suspect it was passed down from your father to your brother first because he is elder, then he passed it down to you. If you had a cousin that would pass on such an exotic weapon to you willingly, you would most definitely not be looking to live in a boarding-house, a war hero like you. Thus, you and your brother probably aren't in the best of relations, and I suppose because he is a drunkard- that is why the blade has marks of being dragged upon the ground." Then, all of a sudden he scanned the characters, running his fingers over them and asked, "do you know what the text says?" I gave a negative answer, absolutely amazed by this Sherlock Holmes's skill.

"That was brilliant, absolutely stunning," I smiled, while he smirked mirthlessly in answer.

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Blasphemer. Or they tell me to go to the darkest depths of hell, though I think that in itself would make for quite an adventure. The text on the sword, Watson, is a rubaiyat:

_Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, _

_ Before we too into the Dust descend; _

_ Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie _

_ Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End! _

It is a form of poetry from Persia, a very large and rather fantastic empire in the east. I have never seen them engraved on weaponry such as this before. And this is by Khayyam, one of the wisest philosophers of old. This, Watson, is not to be used very lightly," he said, gesturing at the sword, almost swinging it around and handing it back to me, smiling.

"Unknowingly, I have followed this very philosophy in coming to Camelot for I am looking for a life of interest and, hopefully, of excitement," said I, reciprocating his friendly facial expression.

As we kept speaking, I had not noticed that my interlocutor had already prepared the bird that he was previously working on earlier. Soon, we ended up sharing what he had made, and I still knew little of this man; all I knew is that he was a knight, quite illustrious in his reputation and though he could have lived in a much larger and better place and afford to not cook his own dinners, he simply chose not to. Mrs. Hudson was apparently the landlady, an old and rather amiable widow, who was currently out but would be back by evening, according to my new acquaintance. He said that she was quite an agreeable woman, and that he was already used to living here at 221b (for that was our address) and had properly equipped his own room with instruments of some kind.

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When we finished eating, Sherlock Holmes stood up, as did I, and we stood in a brief and awkward silence before he started heading out.

Then, he suddenly returned, facing me and with a mischievous look on his face and childishly treasonous glint in his eyes, said, "You have seen war, yes?"

"More than a lifetime's worth."

"Many horrors beyond imagining, much death, I suppose?"

"Too numerous deaths for one man to have ever seen."

"Would you like to see some more?"

"Oh, god yes," I answered and we both quit the room this time, I hurrying after my newfound friend, feeling the familiar race of my heart and smile on my face. I'm going on an adventure, I thought, the anticipation of something absolutely grand permeating all my thoughts.

Out of the doorway rang Sherlock's voice, "grab your sword, John! You'll need it!"

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**Hope this was nice! If you have anything to say, all thoughts and suggestions are welcome, I love them :) Another thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Have a nice day. Just so you know, Omar Khayyam was a Persian polymath, and a very interesting person. Think Leonardo da Vinci, but Persian. This is one of many of his short poems indeed called rubaiyats.**

**Actual adventures starting and more characters introduced in the next chapter :) **

**Until next time. **


	3. The Court at First Glance

"Well, if the walls of Lady Guinevere's chambers could speak, Lancelot, I suspect that no one has any doubts about the type of information they would divulge, would they?" sniped Sherlock Holmes at the other knight, who stood cross-armed in the doorway that we were both trying to get through. Making a grimace and having nothing to say, he stepped away, obviously unable to think of an appropriate reproach.

The room that we entered resembled more a hall, being large of size and having a high ceiling which was a large painting of battle and of vicious serpents with thousands of heads and millions of eyes, of noble knights and of beautiful ladies waiting for them. The walls themselves were entirely made of stone, and the sides that met with the ceiling up top had designs carved into the. So distracted was I that the verses of epics printed in stunning calligraphy upon the rough lower portion of them caught my eye much later. The most notable feature of this entire place was not the painting or even the room itself- it was the perfectly round table in the absolute centre of the room with twelve seats and twelve spots for swords to be placed; it would look as if the blades were radiating from the central circle inscribed on the red wood of this table.

"I'd like it request an audience with you, milord, for my colleague and I have something that we need to discuss quite urgently," said Sherlock to someone sitting in a throne at the foremost part of the room, a step above all else. He was speaking to King Arthur himself. As the king descended, Sherlock knelt on one knee, putting his head down and his left elbow on the standing left leg. I, feeling completely ill-at-ease, decided to follow his example and did the same, wincing of pain as I moved my arm.

Then, I felt someone's hand at my right shoulder and a rather sonorous voice beckoning both of us to stand up. Looking over at the knight next to me, he gestured for me to indeed stand, and so we did. In front of me stood a man of average height, not particularly young and not particularly aged, fair of both face and figure. His face looked friendly and his eyes were of an unusually light shade of blue with sparkles of laughter, and he was smiling.

"Any friend of Sir Sherlock's is a friend of mine," said the king, extending his hand towards mine. Surprised at his unusually non-royal manners, I smiled and shook his hand. We all moved over to sit at the round table, apparently to discuss "urgent business."

"Sire, I would be very grateful if you granted this man permission to be my assistant," said Sherlock in a completely business-like manner. Even though I was the man being discussed, I stayed silent, waiting for an answer. Honestly, I think that I resembled a child tempted with sweets at the moment, quite giddy with anticipation. "He would be my man-in-arms of sorts on expeditions and I have no doubts or qualms regarding his intelligence, which is more than I can say for many other men of Camelot."

"I would like to speak to both of you separately, gentlemen. First you," said King Arthur to me, amiably smiling and Sherlock standing up, nodding his head in acknowledgement as he quit the room. As he left, the doors which had just closed after him opened for just a moment as he winked at me, smiling like a partner in crime more than anything else, then the doors closed again.

"What is your name and what do you do?" asked the king, leading make time the chair opposite him.

"John Watson, son of Hamish of Devonshire, sir. I am a medical man by training, but I have just returned from battle."

"And how long have you been acquainted with Sir Sherlock?" As strange as it was, it was not intimidating at all to speak with him one on one. These are the people who are truly intimidating in their wrath and are the most cunning leaders of all. King Arthur was just as charismatic as he was portrayed in the rumours of Camelot, as well as magnetically charming.

"Not very long, sir. About two and a half hours, give or take half," I answered, and in response received only a laugh.

"Are you two in concord regarding the idea of your accompanying Sherlock? Or are you yourself against it? Be completely honest when answering me," he said, absolutely serious. I had no doubts. Even in the future, looking back upon this moment, I never regretted what I said next.

"Milord, I have known this man for about three minutes before he told me my life story, another five and he had deciphered all there ever was to know about me; yet it took me less than a minute to realise that he was offering me something that is not only what I am looking for, but something that I need. I was in concord with this entire idea before it was put into word or even entered our thoughts."

All King Arthur did was slowly narrow his eyes as the beginning of a smirk appeared on his face. Saying nothing, he stood up and gestured for me to leave.

Sherlock caught the door as I opened it, spinning around me and walking in with a flourish and a swagger to his step.

I was left alone in the large halls of the castle. I was not really alone, just the people walking by all seemed to be in a league of their own, looking down upon me. All of a sudden, a woman walked up to me, decidedly one of the most handsome ladies I have ever beheld, exotically so.

"You are here with Sir Boast-a-Lot, aren't you? I'd better warn you; sever all communication with him as soon as you can."

"Why?"

"Sir Boast-a-Lot does not get any royalties for being here. He likes the terrible things that the knights see, always being the most enthusiastic to investigate them. Why? They bring him pleasure, and I tell you to look out because I have no doubt that someday he will be the one to put one of the horrors there. Just a fair warning. You have Lady Guinevere to thank," said she, walking away the way she came. I was stunned by this impromptu statement of hers, which left a bitter aftertaste, to be honest. Not that I took what she had said to heart. No, I definitely hadn't.

As I there stood deep in thought, I heard Sherlock Holmes walking towards me. He had a glint in his eye and a grin on his face. All of my strange doubts and ominous feelings had dissipated as I followed him down the meandering, labyrinthine halls, looking around.

"I have a question for you; how did you that earlier?"

"Do what?"

"You knew all of those things about me. How?"

"I have already explained it to you. I don't know, I notice, is all. Unlike most people, I actually pay attention to my surroundings-" and I felt a strong pull that almost knocked me off of my feet. Actually, the person tugging me was careful to reach all the way around me to grab my right shoulder, avoiding my left.

We stumbled into an infirmary of sorts (I stumbled, Holmes gracefully stepped in); it was a startlingly clean place, and there was only a single nurse in the entire place. She was a nice-looking woman with a pleasant face and kind eyes.

"Oh, it's you, Sir Sherlock, you startled me. Who is this?" she asked, smiling meekly at Holmes next to me, whose facial expression seemed to be marmoreal in almost everyone's presence, excluding only a couple of people. She was not one of them, it seemed.

"John Watson, at your service," I answered, slightly bowing as is the custom.

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Over the next couple of hours I observed the abuse of young Molly Hooper who brought forth specimens of varying levels of gruesomeness and of varying species to Holmes, refusing to accept my help, while Holmes carefully looked over them and stayed quiet. Any attempts to make conversation were futile, and the lack of patients made it all the more boring. I was also in for a small surprise; while not off on otherworldly adventures with the eccentric knight of ours, this is where I'd be working. After watching the strange relationship between the two people before me, because they obviously have known each other for quite a while, I decided that maybe he is a bit laconic to the point of rudeness at times, though that does not necessarily detract from his positive qualities.

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That evening I also met Mrs. Hudson, and I have decided that she is a saint on earth. Not only does she not pay attention to the eccentricities of her other boarder, her cordiality towards myself was immeasurable. Treating Sherlock as a son, I saw that in her presence he even laughed, while she smiled and put more food in his plate and ale in his cup, insisting that he eat more. Of course he refused, but it was worth a try, was it not?

"We have something to do tomorrow, John. We shall head out early, so be wary," said Sherlock as we parted that evening before going each to his own respective room. Though curious to see what type of equipment he was talking about earlier, I suspected it to be for more of his experiments (which he mentioned briefly much earlier today), I resisted and went into my own infuriatingly empty one. All of my possessions fit into a single messenger bag, and I was left with more than three quarters of the place completely bare.

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I couldn't sleep; I had nightmares once again that night. I've gotten used to them by this point, but I still need at least a small bit of rest at night. As I lay there, I think about what I have gotten myself into; I have signed up for going off on strange adventures with a taciturn knight errant with a bad reputation, charming smile, and childish happiness about him (whenever he actually decides to show it). This may be the best decision I have ever made, but it may also be the worst. I suppose that we will have to just wait and see, for the Fates shall be the ones to decide.


	4. A 221B Christmas

**Merry Christmas! Well, almost Christmas. Hope you like this, it took quite a bit of thought :) **

**[Insert Disclaimer] Enjoy!**

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Snowflakes fell from the sky, coating every surface in shockingly white snow. Children played out battles while adults looked after some of them, cursing at the cold. I guess that that is one of the major differences between children and those who have already grown up; children see the snow and the possibilities, while adults see the cold and their own displeasure. But not all of them, and thank god for that; imagine what a dreary world it would be if every rule did not have exceptions!

* * *

Christmas was almost upon us. Mrs. Hudson was excited, and seeing as she had almost no one else except her boarders, those being me and Sherlock, we were being especially well-treated. She was preparing some kind of a feast for Christmas itself, while I was out trying to buy gifts.

To be honest, I also had almost no one except Mrs. Hudson and my knight; the family that I did have I was avoiding by all costs necessary, and Sherlock and I were growing closer day by day. Every day, we would go off together and sometimes wander the streets of Camelot, helping whoever asked for it, and other times he would stay in his room all day, doing something with chemicals and lenses and asking me to write everything down. And I loved it. Walking with Sherlock, his Arthurian crest dangling off of a chain at his neck and a smirk on his face with a mischievous glint in his eye. He could be mean, incredibly so; he could say something insensitive to a lady before you can say "insensitive", but if have also seen him with children. He makes them laugh, able to teach them and have conversations with them, but only when no one else is looking; I guess he is a child himself, completely and utterly so. Sometimes he would be so charming that I was surprised the ladies had not swooned towards him at first sight, cold and stony at other times.

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It was almost Christmas and I had no idea what to gift him. He would easily deduce any gift I had for him, no doubt, unless it was something unusual and extraordinary.

It was three days before the holiday. I observed him at his desk; in his hands he had a construction of lenses inside of a tubular device, refusing to share the results of this research with me so far. "Not yet," he'd say, scribbling something in his journals. There was parchment everywhere, as well as quills and graphite sticks, albums and ink blotters, drawings and writings. He had oddities such as jars full of what resembled pickled eyes standing on the mantelpiece, as well as a dagger holding a note of some sort to the desk. The main curiosity was the skull.

The skull was first of all a lady, according to Sherlock. Not only was she a lady, she even had a name, "Adelaide." I know not why that name, but in a moment of confidence Sherlock said that she was most often his (ineffective) interlocutor before I came along; he also informed me that she was a better listener than I, although not very conversational. She had her own honorary place upon the mantelpiece and was regularly cleaned by the knight in shining armour himself.

Maybe I should give him a skull, I thought. It would be quite a bit if trouble getting one, but I can always ask Molly Hooper for help in that respect, and my job at the hospital does give me access to more carnage than I could have wished for. It would be a companion for Adelaide, and also something to remember me by. Oh, this inner conversation sounded quite peculiar to my still unaccustomed brain (unaccustomed to life with Sherlock Holmes, that is). Deciding to do exactly that, for the next thirteen hours I put off my quest for a suitable skull during my shift at the hospital. Many people were coming in frostbitten or with runny noses and dreadful coughs, but nothing all that serious. And then I went to the morgue.

After a frank conversation with Molly Hooper (as well as a gift I had already prepared for her, a leather-woven bracelet for her wrist), she reluctantly provided me with the cranium of a man who had died of old age and was all alone during his last years; now, he would always have companions at 221B, I would make sure of that. His name was Thomas.

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It was two days before Christmas. My gift for Mrs. Hudson was ready as well, nothing incredibly special, but I hoped that she would like it nonetheless; I had asked of my mother to write down her best recipes for an amazingly large array of foods (she is one of the most famous cooks in all of Devon), and send them to me, for Mrs. Hudson was always looking for more of her own culinary experiments and newfound treasures. She gladly acquiesced, and now Mrs. Hudson was going to be very happy for sure.

Sherlock was absent the entire day, coming back very late in the evening, while Mrs. Hudson could barely contain her excitement for finally having a "proper holiday" (the first in years, according to her) here at 221B.

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On the day before Christmas, as I came back from my shift, Mrs. Hudson rushed me upstairs, pushing some kind of bread into my hands and not a bit more, telling me to wait only a little bit more until the celebrations. I stumbled into Sherlock's room, managing to hit both of my shoulders at the same time against the wide door frame.

"I suspect Mrs. Hudson is planning some kind of elaborate murder, John. This shall not end well, mark my words," said Sherlock with an air of feigned importance and a smile on his face.

Upon looking over at his desk, I saw and the piles of rubbish two parcels, very neatly wrapped and tied with the type of ribbon young girls put in their hair. Smiling to myself, I saw Sherlock eyeing the parcels as well.

The smell of some type of meats and a multitude of foods reached the top floor, exacerbating the rumble of my stomach tenfold, eliciting only a smirk from my neighbour. And soon after, we were finally called down.

There was truly an intimidating amount of food, I swear. Considering the fact that Sherlock can survive not eating for days and that I do not eat much by habit, this was to be a formidable task. All of a sudden, we heard knocks at the door and went to open it; a small brigand of beggar boys was asking for a bite to eat, a crust of bread to chew on. Of course we invited them in and fed them (about half of the food was still left, after a band of young boys with hungry stomachs had visited!), sitting down to eat ourselves after they quit 221B.

I've not felt so at home in the longest time, watching Sherlock finally eat a normal amount of food, not just grabbing a piece of whatever comes by on the go, and Mrs. Hudson looking over us as a busybody and loving mother does. Later on, I realised that she was expecting the boys, and that her friendliness towards them was a permanent phenomenon; Sherlock also had a good reputation among them, helping them and receiving help in return whenever he asked for it.

Soon came the time to exchange presents. Mrs. Hudson handed me a beautifully embroidered handkerchief that had my initials and my crest on it; she was incredibly skillful, and the aforementioned tapestry was actually her work as well. Sherlock received a sweater from her, of a beautiful blue colour that's outed him perfectly. Next was his turn and he briefly ascended to get the parcels; mine was the smaller one tied in scarlet-purpure ribbon. I saw his gaze on my hands as I carefully untied the intricate knot and took off the wrapping paper; it was a wooden cylinder-shales object with holes at both ends, covered in glass. The wood itself was red and had designs carved into it, of battles and of dragons, stunningly beautiful. I was dumbfounded; I looked through the scope and everything looked blurry and only hurt my eye.

"You're doing it wrong, John. Here," said Sherlock, putting his hand close to the end of the cylinder and beckoning em to look once more; I could see every minute detail of his skin, and it was amazing. I could see him smiling like a Cheshire Cat at my happiness.

"This is brilliant, Sherlock. Honestly, my gift pales in comparison," I said, somewhat worried by the relative inadequacy of my present, handing him a parcel as well.

He ripped apart the paper excitedly, carefully handling the contents; a fire lighted up in his eyes, a look of unadulterated contentedness in his face. "What is his name?" he asked quietly, examining the nuances of bone.

"Thomas. Now Adelaide has someone to speak with, a new companion, just like you," I answered and smiled at him, noticing a hint of sadness in his demeanour, which quickly passed and was exchanged for a true and handsome smile. Sherlock looked me in the eyes and I saw someone who was, for the first time in a very long time, actually surprised, and in a very good way.

Mrs. Hudson was balancing her face on her palm, elbow on the table, looking at us as her two beloved sons. The carollers were passing outside and the fireplace burned with a new strength, the warmth permeating the room as the night went in and in, stars coming up one by one.

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As I was going to sleep that night, I tried to remember every aspect of this evening because it was one of the best holidays of my life.

One thought kept creeping into the depths of my mind; how can anyone look at the man whom I saw tonight, the one who smiled at my own smiles and was shocked by the final realisation that he actually had a friend, and then dare call him "heartless" as he had been called, or poke fun at him? He was like a hedgehog; all needles on the outside, just trying to protect the softness within.

With this thought I fell asleep, the scope that he gifted me lying next to my sword on the desk, its designs no less convoluted and its meaning even more.

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**Happy holidays to everyone, hope I did not disappoint. **

**Leave a review as a perfect Christmas gift ;) **

**Until next time. **


	5. A Twisted Kaleidoscope

**This is the longest chapter I've ever written! If you have the patience to last it, I commend you! ****There is a case here, as well as more characters and character development. There is a reference to Kay, he was one of the knights of the round table. **

**I am loving series three, it is amazing! No spoilers here, though. Promise. Thus, on we go; obviously not mine. **

**Enjoy! **

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It was a large, beautiful creature with scales that reflected every single ray of light and sparkle, each outshining the one next to it tenfold. Its eyes were orbs of molten fire in the centre and exotic greenish-blue colour slightly reminiscent of my companion's own eyes.

"Be very, very quiet," whispered he, trying to avoid the characteristic hissing sound of metal on metal as he drew his sword, warily moving towards the creature through the horde of miscellany below our feet; there were golden grails, foreign coins, precious stones and silver figurines littering the floor of the entire hall, so it was quite hard to move without making a sound and disturbing the beast in front of us. I tried my best to follow the exact movement that Sherlock was making, but my foot slipped carelessly on a large engraved bowl and my heart stopped with the clutter that followed. Sherlock froze and gave such a look the likes of which were inimitable, and then we simultaneously looked at the creature. It blinked and started slowly rising, growing bigger and taller before our eyes; coins and jewels rained down from its hide making more and more noise, and then it roared.

"And now we run. Now!" yelled my knight and we ran for our lives, undeniably much too excited and enjoying this more than we should have.

* * *

_5 hours previous_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is obsessed in the small details and in perfection. Everything has to be in its place, it has to be working correctly, and he had said about three times in the last five minutes that the smallest things are often the most exquisite ones. Though his desk is a mess, parchment everywhere, leather-bound manuscripts and inkwells all over the room, he knew exactly what he needed at any moment and where it was.

That day, I came up to ask him about any upcoming business; as I opened the door, I barely managed to dodge a small dagger that was aimed straight for in-between my eyes, instead catching it with my left hand. See, my military experience had paid off, it seems.

"Do be more careful, John. Just knock," was all my knight said, throwing his hands up and collapsing upon the neatly made bed in the corner. "Do you know how bored I am? My sanity is ebbing away, Watson! I keep thinking, thinking, thinking, but about nothing and everything at once and it is all so excruciating, John! I need a case," he whined with a pained expression upon his physiognomy. He was sitting on his chair in front of his desk, hands deep in his curls and feet impatiently tapping the floor. "And I don't believe that silly talk about left-handedness being sinister and ungodly, you're free to use whatever hand you're comfortable with here, John. Mrs. Hudson is not a prude, either."

Actually, during the last years of my life I haven't even cared much about all that; I've been forced to use my right hand since infancy, so only my natural reactions end up in my left hand being the one used, though not always either. Shrugging off his last statement because it seemed of no importance at the moment, I came closer and just handed him the dagger; looking back at the door, I could see many marks of varying depth and shape, as well as some small knives and star-shaped disk-like objects still embedded in it.

"What are these?" I inquired, forcefully pulling one out of the wood and handing it back to him and stepping aside because his reaction was to promptly throw it into the exact same spot. Nice aim, I must say.

"Oriental throwing stars. Got them off of a Japanese assassin. Very interesting woman." Sherlock jumped out of the chair, picked his chain off of the table, managing to throw it up and around his neck simultaneously, and sword off his bed in the corner and walked right past me, with ease picking out the stars from the door as if it were butter and dropping them into a leather canister at his waist. Then he ran out the door. All alone, I kept standing, a bit startled by this rudeness.

"Well, are you coming or not?" a yell came from far down below.

Of course I was.

Checking to make sure that my own sword was in its sheath, I hurried down the stairs to find a knight gnawing an apple predatorily, and we headed out in the direction of King Arthur's palace.

"I heard rumours this morning. I think that there may be merit to them, though it is possible that there is none and my boredom shall only be exacerbated by the knowledge that there is nothing at all I can do," was the explanation that I got as we took alleys and sidestreets to get to our destination quicker.

We already knew where to go, I being welcomed everywhere where Sherlock was, and quickly got to the room with the Round Table, all of the knights already in attendance; I, lacking the special status, resorted to standing by the walls, but was welcome to listen and participate nonetheless.

* * *

"Gentlemen, there has been a body discovered. Though usually that is no concern of ours, rather if the proper organs, this is an exception due to some curious circumstances. Sir Bedivere, you shall go an investigate, and take Sirs Lancelot, Sherlock, and Percivale with you for the time being. Record everything. Thank you for your attention, gentlemen." This was all King Arthur said with a very serious expression before hurriedly walking out of the hall. As he passed me, he said, "join them, Doctor Watson."

King Arthur was worried and unsettled by something, obviously busy, though I was sure it was none of my business with what.

We congregated outside of the door, and there was apparently a silent agreement to simply follow Sir Bedivere; he was middle-aged but sprightly with only one arm. Legend has it that his other arm was so fast in drawing a sword that he simply had no need for the other one, thus it was not a very big loss once lost in battle. And so we walked all together towards the eastern side of the city, people making way as did.

Along the way, Sherlock and I were in the back of the group, quietly discussing his latest experiment regarding the effect of maggots upon gangrenous tissue when Percivale and Lancelot slowed down to our speed, initiating their own conversation with us. On a side note, Percivale was the youngest of the knights, though Sherlock really could compete with him in that respect, and he was from a family where, though brought up with high values and much honour, there was very little emphasis on manners.

"So you're John Watson, are you; what is your interest working with the likes of him? " asked Percivale, nodding his head in Sherlock's overall direction and smiling surprisingly amiably.

"We are acquaintances and colleagues. Is there anything more you'd like to know, or would you be so kind as to leave before you say something stupid, or even speak at all, in fact," cut in Sherlock, walking faster then they and swerving off of the given street, following Sir Bedivere. Apologetically smiling, I followed him, a little bit surprised, honestly.

"That was uncalled for, Sherlock. He didn't mean anything by asking," I said, and in response got a slightly sardonic look form my companion.

"Oh, everyone's a critic," he said, with a feigned expression of pain. "Let us come to one agreement and one agreement only; I shall do the things I deem necessary and you shall do what you deem necessary, and we both shall operate with minimal criticism. I really do not think that you would have liked what he had to say, Watson. About me or you," a dark glint in his eye and he turned away.

* * *

There was a woman's body on the floor of a very grand room in a small tower-like structure. The building itself was the house of a very wealthy local man whose reputation must have preceded him, for I knew nothing of him while the knights knew all. Sensing my confusion, Sherlock mentioned that the house belonged to a merchant who was able to set up trade with the east and was the one to provide the finest clans of Camelot with their finest goods. Upon entering this given room, what first struck my eye was the unusual way the room was built and decorated- it was hexagonal in shape, with framed mirrors and windows covering every centimetre from the floor to the ceiling. In every mirror, the body of the purpure-clad woman on the floor was reflected, a twisted kaleidoscope.

Sir Bedivere made a gesture to Sherlock to go forth to her, looking at me as well. I kneeled down next to her left side, examining; the woman was a blonde with dark-coloured eyes, a braid in her hair that was strangely singed at the end, almost as if burned deliberately, and an apparent cause of death- her neck was broken with marks burned into her skin.

"Well, she's quite dead," I said initially.

"I brought you along in the hopes that you would be able to tell me a bit more than that, John," said Sherlock with the sarcasm dripping form his voice and Lancelot and Percivale sniggering in a corner, one of many on the room. Then, I reported the rest of my findings.

Sherlock patiently stood by, seemingly bursting at the seams with excitement, as I said all of this. As soon as I closed my mouth, he dove down across from me and started quickly moving his fingers over her entire body, smelling, looking intently.

"She was killed recently, most likely near London-town, and I suspect something very interesting is at work here, gentlemen. She was unmarried, but did have a suitor or at least someone to dress up for. The lack of jewellery, yet marks that she did have it show that this may have been motivated by a simply wish to rob, but why within the confines of her own room and not the silver band? There is a thin silver band around her wrist, no embellishments except an engraving, but that doesn't matter at all, does it..." tonguetwisted Sherlock, leaving us all, myself included, very much confused as to how he understood this.

"You are fabricating this, Sir Sherlock, and I shall not stand it," said Bedivere, rather belligerently as well.

"Ugh, what's it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring," said an exasperated Holmes, and then started pointing to the girl, "Look at her! As were walking here, we passed a market and there was discussion regarding the storm in London-town amongst the vendors; the hem of her dress is still a little bit wet, thus, her cloak was not long enough to cover her in her entirety. Thus, she was most likely returning form London-town, and rather recently. I can see marks in her ears and on her fingers, tan lines, showing that she must have had jewellery on, but it is missing and was rather forcibly taken off, probably in a hurry," said Sherlock, pointing to red marks on the girl's fingers and thin cuts on her ears. "She was wealthy, as you can easily tell from the fabric of her clothes, it is very expensive dye, and she was dressed up for someone. That last small band on her wrist is foreign-made, I'd say; she was showing off in front of someone, and judging by her age and the rather ornate hairstyle, probably a suitor. Understand?"

The words "simply amazing" slipped out of my mouth of their own accord. Holmes whipped his head to look at me and made a questioning grimace. I looked down, avoiding his face.

He bent down once more, paying special attention to her hair, looking through it. Though I doubt anyone else saw, I noticed that he hid something in his fist, and later into the small leather canister that hung at his waist as he stood up in about a minute. Sherlock took out a similar lens as to the one that he had gifted me a little while earlier and examined her fingers once more. Chainmail rattling ever so slightly, he smoothly stood up and started looking around the room, his facial expression serious and moribund.

"The silver band on her wrist is Scottish, Bedivere. The design, though antiquated, is recognisably Celtic, specifically of the Scottish highlands, and the fact that it still smells of heather, probably from being rubbed in it not all that long ago. It's a gift from our suitor," said Sherlock, getting ready to head out.

"Brilliant," I said involuntarily once again.

Sherlock moved closer to me and, eyebrow arched, asked, "are conscious of the fact you do that out loud?"

Though I quietly promised that I would stop, in return I received an almost silent "I really do not mind all that much."

"So, Sir Boast-A-Lot, what have you decided to tell us this time?" said Percivale, with his arms crossed and standing in the doorway, nasty expression on his face and a challenging look in his eye.

"The main clue here is what's missing, just think about it," was my knight's reply as he started leaving the room, his footsteps echoing down. I ran after him, enthusiasm starting to build up. Suddenly, he stopped on the stairs and started yelling up at everyone else who was left, "we are dealing with something very interesting! Just look, for god's sake, look!" and kept running faster than I could keep up.

Left alone in the middle of the extraordinarily long stairwell, I sat down and started thinking, when Sir Lancelot sat down next to me.

"I want to give you some friendly advice for you seem a good and sensible man; move out of 221B, get as far away from Sherlock Holmes as you can. He loves all of this more than is healthy, and I am sure that it will not end well for neither him, nor any of us. Just a warning, Watson," he said, swiftly standing up and continuing down the stairs.

Left with a bitter aftertaste, I went to find my way back to Baker Street.

As I was walking down the streets, absorbing the voices around me, sword dangling by my side, a woman who was walking behind me decided to match my speed. She looked over at me, not at all unpleasant, and handed me a piece of parchment. Then, she turned into an alley and kept going in her own way.

_If you wish to have a handsome income supplementing your current financial situation, in five minutes turn over into the Street of Kay. To avoid any extra conversation, thus are the terms of our agreement, should you seek to agree to it- I, an interested party, seek information on Sherlock Holmes that you, his friend, however strange that may actually be, can provide. You are right not to trust me, which I have no doubt you do not, but I know that you enjoy your return to war among the battlefields of these streets along with your new acquaintance. If you shall decide to not meet, all I have to add is welcome back, doctor Watson._

Not prepared to, as I understood it, spy on my neighbour, I kept walking home, though the woman herself seemed interesting enough and remained in my thoughts.

I came home to find Sherlock lying on his bed, smoking pipe weed and a small, shiny object in hand.

"Look what I got handed on the street," I said, handing him the parchment as he sat up and deposited the shiny thing on the chair close by. "Who is it from?"

"Most likely a friend of mine. Well, an enemy is a more proper description. Actually, archenemy should just about cover it. Did you take the money?"

"Of course not!"

"Pity. Could've had a night out in the town, John, and still had enough for next month's rent," smirked Sherlock.

"Wait a second, who even has archenemies?" I asked, somewhat bewildered, the speeches of both Lancelot and Guinevere coming to mind.

"So what do people have, John? Friends, lovers, acquaintances? Boring," drawled out Sherlock, handing me the mysterious shiny object. This must have been what he pocketed at the kaleidoscope-like room. Just remembering that made my head spin just a little bit. The object really was small, and shone with blues, cyans, and light pinks. It resembled a scale as one may see on a large fish.

"Her fingers were just slightly burned, John, and her hair singed. Her jewellery, all of the gold and precious stones, was stolen, the silver left undesired and as a signature. Put it together, John, think!" Sherlock was close to me and I could sense the excitement running through his veins, the fire finally burning in his eyes, something along the lines of a smile on his face.

According to lore, dragons hoard gold and jewels, never using it, but having for the sake of having, and their skin can often barely contain the fire within which they can choose to breathe out if they wish to cause much harm.

"But dragons are just legends, right? Right, Sherlock?"

"Look at the scale in your hand, John, and tell me what you think now," he said, smirking slightly. I can imagine that my face reflected the small conflict and confusion within, and I imagine that that was what he was smirking at.

Gesturing for me to follow, he went over to his desk which had a large map laid out, the features themselves drawn neatly with messily written addenda and other notes. He stood over it and started pointing and tonguetwisting phrases again, I trying to catch up in understanding.

"So we know that our victim was in London-town before actually getting to Camelot and she was not killed much too long ago. Thus, the place that we are looking for should be close to the city, somewhere in this forest here," Sherlock pointed to the forest northeast of London-town, and silenced, thinking.

"Well, there is a cave in this forest in which I've heard of fugitives seeking asylum. How about there?" I suggested, only to receive one of those looks that you get from your friend in childhood when you find a foolproof way of stealing sweeties from your mother and not getting in trouble.

"That's right, I knew there was merit in bringing you along! Let's-" started saying Sherlock, but was cut off by a familiar voice from downstairs yelling "boys, you have a visitor!"

We descended downstairs, an extremely annoyed Sherlock practically stomping as we did.

"We've come looking for contraband," announced Sir Bedivere, accompanied by Lancelot, Percivale, and a couple of other knights, who I still had not met.

"Lancelot, since when are you stooping so low as to do the work of the police?" asked Sherlock before I had a chance to say anything.

"I'm a volunteer; in fact, most of us are, and we are looking for at and all contraband, Sherlock."

"What, contraband? This man? Are you serious?" I said, outraged by this absurdity, when I heard a quiet voice next to me saying "be quiet."

"He is one of the most honest people I have ever met!" I said, and the same voice now hissing "shut up," and Sherlock's extremely serious face and burning eyes boring into my own. A silence reigned for a few moments until Sherlock walked up to Bedivere, handing him the scale that I had already seen and before we could hear his full objections and yells about the lack of organisation in our work, we strutted out of the door and down the street.

As we were stepping over the threshold, all I heard was a voice screaming, "why is there a jar of eyes in the window?!"

"It's an experiment," said Sherlock to me, smiling and beginning to walk even faster, I catching up.

There is a whole service offered in Camelot based on the renting of horses; you pay a certain amount of money for actually renting a horse as well as a deposit, which is you get back once you return the horse. That was exactly what Sherlock and I did; the owner of the stable owned him a favour, thus we were able to ride stallions, Sherlock's a black Andalusian mare and mine a beautiful dapple grey, for no cost. These were his finest horses, well-trained and with lean muscle, fire in their eyes. The was a tall man, seemingly of foreign origins, judging by his accent, and his name was apparently Angelo. After informing me cordially of the fact that Sherlock proved his innocence in a murder case, then Sherlock himself reminding him that it by proving that he was halfway across Camelot committing a robbery, he let us go because we were out obviously in a hurry trying to get to the forest before sundown.

There was little conversation along the way, the basic plan of action being that we assess the situation once we get there, for Sherlock himself was sure that we were not the only ones interested in the cave and its contents. I, for one, was not only excited but a little bit apprehensive, making sure that my weapons were with me and hoping my shoulder would not smart at any inopportune moments. My companion was not worried at all, just pensive, I think.

Turning around all of a sudden, for he was in front of me, he said, "do not draw your weapon yet. Listen to me; if I say 'stay', stay, and if I say 'run', run. Understood?"

I nodded and we entered the depths of the forest itself, the bottom scantily illuminated by the light from above the treetops.

* * *

_15 minutes later_

* * *

"Well, this is a rather compromising situation," muttered Sherlock as he and I were pinned against the wall by a splendidly long, beautiful tail and a roar reverberating in the entire concave, promptly silencing my knight.

"Any ideas on what to do?" I whispered.

"None whatsoever," was the quick reply.

We were in heaps of trouble; I seriously doubt that the smile on my face should have been there, the excited glint in my eyes reflected perfectly in Sherlock's own. But it was.

* * *

**If you've read until this point, leaving a review would be the best next step. I hope you enjoyed, and I shall update relatively soon! I have a feeling this will end up being one of those really long fics with chronicles of cases, births, deaths, etc. and I have no doubt I shall enjoy every single bit of it, as I hope you will. **

**Until next time. **


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